you and i, we're sort of like this
by portionss-forfoxes
Summary: What arrived simultaneously with the realization that Ginny could not understand nor fix her husband was the realization of who could.  Harry/Luna, Harry/Ginny.


**A/N: Just a little idea that's been floating around in my head. Hary/Luna, Harry/Ginny. **

**Note: J.K. Rowling did explain after the release of the 7****th**** book that Ginny went on to be a Quidditch correspondent for **_**The Daily **_**Prophet. Minor detail of the story, but still!**

you and I, we're sort of like this

At first, Ginny had been hesitant to call upon the help of another woman when Harry slipped into one of his moods. After all, she _was _his wife, and he her husband—shouldn't she be able to extract him from his odd, dreamy, ungraspable states? Was she not enough for him? Yet Ginny was a sensible, smart girl—you might even say pragmatic (all traits she'd learned from growing up with six brothers—emotion was rarely the defining facet of decision-making for the Weasley girl). She soon determined that no, she was not enough for Harry _in that particular way_, but was that really such a terrible thing? Was it truly possible for one human to be another's everything? Ginny thought not. And so she popped into her friend Luna Lovegood's fireplace every once in a while.

Ginny wasn't quite sure what it was that sent Harry spiraling into one of his moods (that's what she and Ron and Hermione had come to call them—"Harry's moods"). Sometimes he'd be playing with little James and Lily (well, mostly James, as Lily was barely two now) and suddenly he'd get this look in his eyes, this far-off, searching look, somewhere in the minuscule space between longing and dread. And he'd get up, James still leaping and clutching at his pant-leg gleefully, but it was like Harry couldn't even see him. He'd walk straight past Ginny without a word and right out the door. He'd go and lay down in the front yard under the oak tree, sometimes for hours on end, and when Lily asked if Dada was coming in to kiss her goodnight, Ginny would tuck her in tight and say, "Sh; tomorrow, love, I promise."

It started happening about the time Ginny was pregnant with James, so not too many years after the end. Once, when James was maybe six months old, Ginny had gone out beneath the oak tree as the moon was rising to see if she could fix him.

His eyes were closed, his glasses in his hand. A breeze rustled through the branches of the oak tree and tousled the untamed hair above his forehead. He did not open his eyes when Ginny sat down beside him—it frightened her a bit to realize that he wasn't just ignoring her: he honestly had not heard a thing. She reached over to brush his hair off his forehead, trace her fingers lightly along his scar. Harry opened his eyes and looked surprised to see her. He sat up, his trance partly broken.

"Oh," he said. "Gin, what're you doing out here?"

She smiled softly. "You've been out here for four hours."

Harry blinked, his eyebrows shooting upwards. "Have I? I hadn't noticed. I reckon I'd better go in and say good night to James—"

"I've already put him to bed."

Harry blinked, frowned, slumped a bit. "Oh. Have you."

"I have." Ginny sighed, reaching for his arm so she could run her fingers up and down the soft skin of his underarm. "Harry," she said, "why've you been coming out here so much lately? What's on your mind?"

And it was that moment, Ginny recalls, that she knew. It was the look he gave her, surprised, almost, at her ignorance … In disbelief that she didn't know the answer. It wasn't meant to be hurtful, no; it was true bewilderment. It was then that she knew she could never understand him, and if she could never understand him, she could never come close to fixing him. "Everything," he answered.

* / *

What arrived simultaneously with the realization that Ginny could not understand nor fix her husband was the realization of who could. It didn't seem like such a far stretch, when you thought about it. So Ginny, being the clever, perceptive girl that she was, called upon the help of her good friend Luna Lovegood.

The first time she opened her eyes to find herself in Luna's fireplace, she was more than a little embarrassed. Maybe this hadn't been such a good idea after all. Maybe she'd better just pretend this never happened, and go back—

"Ginny?" came a soft, floating voice, and Ginny heard footsteps hurrying down a staircase. She reckoned she had about seven seconds to turn around and pretend she'd never been there, but before she could decide, Luna was before her, blue eyes wide with delighted surprise.

"Ginny!" Luna exclaimed, kneeling by the fireplace so she was at knee-level with Ginny. "I thought I heard you."

"Oh, I didn't—did I—did I call you?" Ginny asked, perplexed, attempting to recall if she'd already beckoned her friend.

"No, no, I just thought I heard you calling, you know, with my orgafore."

Assuming Luna's orgafore was her weird, nonsensical version of a sixth sense, Ginny said haltingly, "Right, yeah. Of course."

There was a pause.

"How long have you been here?" Luna questioned curiously. "In my fireplace?"

"Oh, not long," Ginny answered, clearing her throat. "About ten seconds, before you came down."

"Oh," said Luna.

There was another pause.

"You're still having that birthday party for Ron on Saturday next, aren't you?"

"Yes, yeah, we are. You're still invited, Luna, 'course you are."

"Oh, good."

There was yet another pause.

"Did you…drop in for any particular reason?" Luna prodded politely. "You seem a bit embarrassed." Her eyes were as round and innocent as ever.

Ginny blushed a bit. Of course. How could she ever have expected that Luna wouldn't pick up on her every emotion?

"Oh, no, not at all, it's just, well…"

"It's Harry," said Luna matter-of-factly.

Ginny was simultaneously dumbfounded, suspicious, and relieved. She stared at Luna, mouth agape.

"That's…how did you…?"

"Oh, probably just my orgafore again. It's been quite on edge lately."

"Right. Yes. Your orgafore."

"Would you like me to come over there?" offered Luna helpfully.

"Yes," Ginny replied. "Yes, I would." And she was glad that with Luna, you never had to explain.

* / / *

The first couple of times, Ginny's requests continued to be uncomfortable for her, especially after she knew Luna'd been working all day as a wizarding naturalist and would probably like some rest, as Ginny did. But Luna was always as willing as Luna was bound to be, and she didn't ask questions and she didn't prod, she just knew.

That first time, Ginny stood at the kitchen window and watched as Luna appeared with a _crack! _and made her way over to Harry, her steps silent in the evening dew. She was barefoot, her white-blonde hair billowing out behind her and her pale skin glowing, and in the twilight she looked like a ghost, or maybe, Ginny thought, maybe even an angel.

Ginny washed the dishes by hand, a nervous habit. She could hear Ron and the boys jostling about in the other room, but in that moment it felt like another world, another dimension, wholly disconnected from her. Luna was lying beneath the oak tree beside Harry as the night rose up around them, and their lips barely moved at all.

Harry came in half an hour later, and Ginny quickly made to look like she was busy and inattentive to him, so very, very caught up with her fascinating dish-washing. She heard the front door creak open and slam shut, and Harry hung his coat up by the door.

"Hi," he said, coming into the kitchen to kiss her temple from behind. "Washing dishes by hand?" he noticed, frowning quizzically.

"Oh," said a flustered Ginny, "yes, well, I suppose I just wanted something to do."

He nodded once, eyes downcast, and when he looked up again he was happy and smiling. He wrapped his arms around her.

"Luna came by, you know," he said into her fiery hair.

"Oh?" Ginny responded; it was easier to feign surprise when he couldn't see her face, it being buried in his shoulder. "Does she want to come in for a cup of tea or some leftovers?"

"No," Harry answered, letting out a long sigh. "I think she had to be on her way."

"Mm," said Ginny. They broke apart, and Harry made his way toward the living room.

"I'd be careful," Ginny warned with a grin. "James and Hugo've just now learned if they concentrate hard enough, they can levitate Hermione's heavy books."

Harry grinned back. "I'll be careful," he promised.

And he was the perfect husband and father for the rest of the night.

* / *

It worked like that all the time, now—it'd become routine, almost. Ginny would be making dinner or finishing up an article, Harry would be in the living room rough-housing with James while Lily clapped her hands and cheered him on, he'd slip into one of his moods, Ginny would pop into Luna's fireplace, then go back to what she was doing, and thirty minutes later Harry would come inside, good as new. Like magic. Sometimes Luna would even come in for dinner after, like a reward for a hard day's work. And as far as Ginny knew, Luna had never told Harry who sent her.

* / *

On evening as the Weasley-Potters were all gearing up for dinner, all the children zooming about the kitchen, forks flying through the air to settle at their place on the table (or close enough, anyway), Harry suddenly stopped chatting with Ron about the Chudley Cannons' chances this season. He set down his wineglass. He went out to the oak tree. Ron gave Ginny a befuddled look.

Leaving the potato-peeling to Hermione for a moment (who was chattering about SPEW's plans for the upcoming year), Ginny rolled her eyes and told Ron, "I'll go get Luna, I think she's in the living room—could you watch the kids?" But a glance at the window told her Luna was already there, leaning against the trunk of the oak tree beside Harry. Ginny had long since learned not to question Luna's strange and mystifying behavior—she assumed she'd just utilized her hyper-sensitive orgafore once again—so she shrugged and returned to potato-peeling.

"…and we're working on getting the status erected in Dobby's honor at the Ministry," Hermione was saying, barely flicking her wand as the potatoes moved at Snitch-like speeds. "D'you suppose I'd better bump that up to number seventeen on the agenda? Or is it fine at twenty-four?"

"Seventeen for sure," Ginny returned emphatically, because she liked that number better.

At last, at 7:15, dinner was almost ready. Hermione and Ron were just setting down the last of the plates on the table, and Teddy was wrestling with Hugo and James in the living room while Seamus and Dean had a tea party with the girls in the kitchen.

"Hermione, you go upstairs to get the rest—I think George and Charlie started up some sort of wizard snaps nonsense tournament for the blokes—and I'll go outside and get Harry and Luna."

"Sure thing," Hermione said, already halfway up the stairs, dodging a couple of wayward cousins.

Ginny wined her flour-crusted hands on her apron and weaved through the throng of loud, tipsy people to finally reach the front door. It slammed shut behind her, and she marched toward the oak tree, arms akimbo, but soon she heard her name and stopped, dead-still, her heart pounding.

"Ginny sends you, doesn't she," Harry was saying to Luna. Ginny quickly moved to stand out of his line of vision, behind them. The sky was turning orange out over the horizon, and shadows flickered through the cracks on the branches to dance over Harry and Luna's oblivious faces.

"Yes," answered Luna simply, in her sweet-sounding, high voice. She did not sound worried that she would anger or offend him. She never did. "But I've started coming anyway, before she even asks me. I don't think she notices, she's got so much on her plate. Like today, my orgafore was tingling wildly, so I knew I'd best come outside to see you."

"Your orgafore," Harry said; Luna was intently watching a monarch butterfly fluttering above their heads; Ginny could see the smile that Luna could not. "Right, yes."

There was a pause, one Luna, as usual, felt no obligation to fill.

"But why you?" Harry suddenly pressed, the words seeming to burst out of him unexpectedly. He shifted his knees underneath him, turning his body to face Luna completely, dying to know. "Why did Ginny pick you and not Ron or Hermione or Kingsley to come over here and…and fix me?" Ginny's heart nearly burst out of her chest at the use of the very words she'd subconsciously used to describe what she was not capable of doing, what Luna was.

Luna did not answer straightaway. She was seemingly enthralled with the butterfly, the sky slowly ripening to match its tangerine shade. Her eyes did not waver from its wildly flapping wings.

"Harry, did I ever tell you about the Antraclaz?"

Harry looked close to an eye-roll; Ginny went all the way.

"No, Luna, you haven't," he answered, the exasperation leaking into his voice.

"They were an ancient clan of witches and wizards in Armenia who believed in Gods of Magicke. Don't ask Hermione about them, because I'm sure she'll say they never existed, but she's quite wrong, the Antraclaz were very real."

"Yes, I'm sure they were," said Harry, his lips pursed. Luna ignored—or rather, did not notice—his sardonic tone.

"The Antraclaz believed that the Gods of Magicke instilled each witch or wizard with their magic through their hands, and their mythology says that's why humans' hands are so imperative to us—because they were once the conduit for magic."

"Ah, yes," Harry agreed with a sigh, his arms crossed.

"And every once in a while," Luna went on, "the Gods of Magicke would carve the exact same creases into two wizards' hands. The exact same." Harry was peering at her now, the bored and impatient expression fading slightly. "That way, if the two people ever found each other, their hands would fit perfectly together, and they would know that they had an ally, a friend, against the darker forces of the world."

Luna's eyes finally left the butterfly, and Harry's mouth hung open the slightest bit. He watched in a daze as Luna calmly took his hand and held it up to her own. Whatever was there—Ginny couldn't see—left Harry astounded. He looked from Luna to their hands to Luna again, as if trying to connect two pieces of a puzzle he'd never guessed would fit.

Luna laced their fingers together, one by one, her eyes unwavering from their conjoined hands. Her grip looked gentle, her fingers long and slender, fair and shining like the touch of an angel. "You and I, we're sort of like this," she whispered.

"Luna," Harry said. "Luna Lovegood."

And Ginny knew he would never speak a name the way he did to her that night.

Slowly, she backed away—she stepped on a twig, but they didn't hear, of course they didn't hear. When she got to the door she flung it open, then closed it behind her as quietly as possible. Leaning up against it, she closed her eyes. Her breath was quick, her heart pounding.

"Ginny!" Ron exclaimed, two screeching children attached to his legs. "I thought you'd gone to get Harry and Luna."

"Yes," Ginny said, rattled. "Yes, I—I got distracted. I've…I've forgotten to get one last thing on the table, would you go out and get them?"

"Sure," answered Ron, confused, but she was already halfway to the kitchen.

**A/N: Would love a review, as always. Thanks for reading!**


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